Lifesaver

As is so often the case at these stupid cottage parties, I went and lost track of all the beer I’d been drinking, although it sure knew exactly where to find me, sending conflicting signals to my brain and some strange sharp warning down deep in my gut, coming up fast, and the outhouse too far in the wrong direction.
     And still I must have stumbled off the path, because I soon found myself tripping through the spongy underbrush, my legs giving way, branches scratching at my ankles and slapping my face.
      . . . now sprawled on a floor of solid stone.

I lowered myself so carefully, hands pressed to the granite, holding it steady, this rock that hadn’t moved for millions of years, and even so, probably still passed out, cuz I woke to the sun rising through a gap in the trees, brilliant and flickering orange . . . terribly hot but with no sound at all save the roar from the fire. You’d expect screams or something, but I guess they’d all run off . . . except Thom.
     “I’ve decided to quit smoking,” he said, handing me a knapsack he’d rescued, mine.
     “You’re a lifesaver, Thom.”
     “Oh yeah?” he said. “So where’s my hole?”

Photo by Aleksander Nedić.